Washed Out Love
by soniagiris
Summary: "Hello?" Yusuke calls out, tightening his fingers on the doorway, and gasps when the woman turns to glance at him. He- he knows her face, he's always known it, her, and- "M-mom?"


How strange. He can see the hit coming (a Shadow armed with a knife the size of Futaba's forearm, plunging forward, forward), yet his legs won't move. His hand won't raise his katana to defend himself. His eyes won't move away from the blade coming his way.

Strange. None of the Shadows they've fought before have been acting like that - they have been using spells which tingled or burned, or physical attacks which bruised. Even Mudo curses, like Akira calls them, only knocked out when connected.

But, Yusuke thinks with distant serenity, perhaps such odd behavior is the result of Akechi's enchantment.

And then the sword goes through his chest. His legs fold, he falls, the back of his head hits the steel floor, and the world goes out in a blink.

And then there is nothing.

And then there is white.

Yusuke stares at the ceiling, recognizing the familiar wooden beams he used to see every night for thirteen years, now washed over with pure light that never fell into this room. His throat feels dry, and his thoughts refuse to collect into something of sense. Only after a while he realizes - he's not in pain.

He was stabbed. "Wasn't I?" he asks himself and frowns at the peculiar quality of his voice. There was some echo in his room, but now the sound fades into the air instead of bouncing back. He picks himself up from the futon he was lying on and looks down onto himself, noticing the winter uniform he had on before entering the Metaverse. It's perfectly clean, and, when he presses his hand to where the blade entered, he doesn't feel a tear in the worn fabric.

"Am I…" He shakes his head, anxiety creeping into his heart. "Am I dead?"

He wanders into the corridor, filled with the same, ethereal light. Everything is still and quiet, as if he was thrusted into a painting. He swallows hard, then turns around the corner and spots the door to Madarame's studio. It's open.

When he steps inside, wary but curious, the first thing he sees is a woman, tall and dressed in a red, floor-length dress, her dark hair draped over her shoulder, standing with her back to him.

"Hello?" Yusuke calls out, tightening his fingers on the doorway, and gasps when she turns to glance at him. He- he knows her face, he's always known it, her, and- "M-mom?"

"Yusuke?" Her hand flies up to her mouth as her eyes widen and fill with tears. "You- Oh, oh my god…" Her low, pleasant voice breaks. "You've grown so much."

They meet halfway in, bodies crashing into each other as they embrace, cling to each other with all their might, Mom's arms going around Yusuke's back as he presses their foreheads together to- to see her properly, but his vision goes blurry. He only realizes he's crying when the tears spill over his cheeks, hotter than blood.

He forgets he's dead right away. It matters no more, it can't matter when he's here, with his mother, with Mom, for the first time in too long, and he has a slight deja vu when his knees give out and, without letting go of Mom, he sinks to the floor.

"Yusuke, my little Yusuke, my baby," she chokes out, her hands moving to his face, wiping his tears with her thumbs. "You're- you're so big, now, you're an adult, my Yusuke, I missed you so much."

"I m-missed you too," he replies, stammering through his closed throat, happy and sad and terrified and nostalgic all at once as he fists the soft silk of Mom's dress by her back. "M-mom, my word, I- I-" He sobs, unable to form words anymore.

"Shh, it's okay, it's alright," she pulls him down until he rests his head on her lap, then strokes his hair with one hand, holding his in the other. "I know, sweetie, I know. I missed you too." She wipes her tears and smiles. It's not- not the Sayuri's smile, it's not as gentle and calm, it's wobbly and brims with even more love. Her touch is warm, and all Yusuke can do is close his eyes and revel in it.

After a while, when he's no longer crying so terribly, Mom starts humming a song which he recognizes after a while. It's an old memory, one of the oldest, of being small and breakable, and held by gentle arms while she sang to him, lulling him to sleep. His fingers, intertwined with hers, twitch, and she stops mid-note.

"I'm silly, am I not?" She laughs quietly. "I forgot you're no longer a baby that needs to be sang to."

"It's alright, Mom," Yusuke says hoarsely. "You need not worry about such trivial issue."

"Maybe." She brushes a strand of hair from his face, and he lifts his eyelids to look at her questioningly. Her brows furrow as she asks, "And how old are you?"

"Sixteen." Her lips purse as her fingers move another lock away and stop, gently pressed to - oh.

"Sweetheart," she says carefully, "how did you get this scar?"

He straightens up, instantly missing the warm feeling of being loved, and, after a beat, says honestly, "I have angered Madarame."

"You- excuse me?" She looks angry now. "And he hit you?"

"No, not really." He glances away. "He pushed me. There was a cabinet, and I fell onto its corner."

"What caused him to do that?* In some ways, her sharp tone reminds him of Sae Nijima, and he almost wants to chuckle. Instead, he recalls the event she's asking him about.

"Sensei was busy working on a painting," he says slowly as the repressed memories flood back. "It took him the entire day, and he didn't tutor anyone at that time, so there wasn't anyone in our atelier to prepare me anything to eat, as I was too young to do it by myself. Therefore, in the evening I went to ask him. I kept distracting him, so, after a while of me needling him, he had no other choice but to physically rid himself of my presence."

Mom scoffs. "Had no choice, my ass," she mutters, making Yusuke blink at her in surprise at the curse, then inquires, "How old were you, exactly?"

"I was six." She tightens her hold on his hand, then sighs deeply. Her expression is that of… extreme distress. Yusuke adds, a bit meekly, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's- it's me who is sorry." She makes a shushing noise when he opens his mouth, then continues, "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. It's- Dammit. I knew it, deep down, that Madarame was a scum, but I only realized the true extent of his depravity when I was suffocating on the carpet under his curious eye."

Yusuke can't help but flinch at such harsh words, causing Mom to murmur an apology. She gives him a long, examining gaze, one that feels almost tangible, like a layer of paint covering his skin, and Yusuke, pushing his bangs back to cover the mark, understands why Ann and later Akira complained about him staring at them.

And that reminds him… "Mom," he says, "I am dead, correct?"

She tilts her head. "I don't think so, no." As the blood in his veins turns to ice, she gifts him a small smile. "I find it hard to explain, but you- you don't feel dead to me. However, that brings us to a very important question - why would you think you've deceased at sixteen years old?"

Yusuke breaths in through his nose, trying to calm himself down, then goes into explaining the events of last few months. Madarame's lies coming out in the open, Phantom Thieves, Akira and Akechi, the Metaverse. When he's telling the story of Haru and her late father, he notices a faint buzzing coming out of nowhere, slowly growing stronger with each passing minute. When he's caught up to the present to his story, he realizes Mom seems torn between being proud and concerned. When he queries her about it, she lets go of his hand to ruffle his hair in a way no one did before.

"I'm just shocked that you've grown this much, sweetie," she says, but gets serious when she notices, "But you haven't told me what exactly occurred to bring you here."

"Well, that Akechi person…" At least he doesn't remember pain. It makes it easier to continue, "He turned out to have this power to make Shadows absolutely frenzied, and one of them had attacked me with its sword. That's the last thing I remember before getting here. By the way, what is 'here'?"

"A place in between," Mom says vaguely, then changes the topic, "So you were brought up by that bastard Madarame. How bad was it?" Her voice is even, almost business-like, but, when Yusuke catches her eye, he sees fiery anger and cold regret.

"It wasn't that bad," he says out of habit, then, with more consideration, adds, "When compared to my friends' parents, he was less than pleasant, yes, but he, at the very least, provided for my most basic needs and taught me most of what I know about painting."

"You're an artist too?" Mom brightens up instantly, and Yusuke feels kind of happy about it. "Oh my, that's wonderful! What's your preferred style?"

"Abstract, but I've been working on a series of my companion's portraits which were more realistic, a bit inspired by Mucha's works, but with less detailed backgrounds."

"Which technique?"

"Watercolors, shades of grey and blue, smooth brush strokes."

They're grinning at each other, Yusuke realizes, then thinks that it's the first time in ages he talked about art with someone who understood.

"Amazing." Mom laughs fondly. "Goodness, when you were born, I hoped that, one day, we could discuss our works - and my wishes came true."

"It's a shame they did in such conditions," Yusuke points up, then winces as the buzzing gets irritating.

"True." Mom frowns. "I wish we could talk for longer, but it seems it's the time for you to go."

"Go where?" he asks, and Mom gives him a tight-lipped smile.

"Go back, of course. You're too young to stay here, after all." She rests her hand on his - and it feels barely material.

"Do I have to- Yes, you're right. I can't stay here." 'With you', he doesn't say, not brave enough. "My friends need me."

"They do." Mom leans forward to press a kiss to his forehead, then another to his scar. "They want you back, I'm sure."

"I'll miss you," Yusuke says with a weak smile, reaching out to wrap his arms around her, hardly feeling anything. "I'll miss you so much, Mom."

"I'll miss you too, sweetheart," she whispers into his shoulder; he almost doesn't catch that over the noise filling his head. "But you better not show your face here in another seventy years."

"Okay." The light is getting brighter too. He pulls back and says, quietly, "I love you, Mom."

She smiles and opens her mouth.

And then the light swallows her. Swallows everything.

He wakes up in a hospital room, with Futaba and Akira asleep on the rickety chairs, and to terrible pain radiating from his chest. He blinks wearily at the siblings, almost too drugged to feel gratitude at the sight, then goes back to sleep.


End file.
